Hair Raising
by Purupuss
Summary: Strong, hirsute, masculine: That's the physical definition of a Tracy. But what if something was happening that could change that definition?


_A little thing that came to mind after I received the first two of the Big Chief Studios Thunderbirds figures. _

_As usual, I would like to thank my proofreaders Quiller and D.C. for their assistance with proofing this story. I would also like to acknowledge Gordon's gremlins, who, despite many reading and re-readings, will do their best to slip in the occasional typo._

_Also as usual, I will admit that none of the characters belong to me. The Thunderbirds cast and crew belong to ITV and I'm so glad that I get the opportunity to play with them._

_This story was published on Fan Fiction dot net. If you are reading it elsewhere, it is a stolen copy. I usually do not mind people displaying my stories elsewhere, but I do appreciate the courtesy of being asked if the site, or C2, it is being displayed on is acceptable. Thank you. _

_FAB_

:-) _Purupuss_

_-F-A-B-_

_Dedicated to the memory of Shane Rimmer - the one and only Scott Tracy._

* * *

Scott Tracy woke up.

Checking his bedside clock, he discovered that it was the time that he expected it to be: 5:30am.

Time to get up.

He could choose to stay in bed, and sometimes he did indulge himself; lying back and mulling over the previous day's rescue, deciding what worked well and what, well, needed work.

But International Rescue's services hadn't been required since earlier in the week; aside from a trip to Thunderbird Five to return John to his natural environment and release Alan back to his; and so, he made the decision to get up and get moving.

Intending to head down to the gym for an early morning workout, he sat up, swinging his legs around until his feet slapped onto the floor, and switched on his light. He stood and stretched.

He felt good.

Turning, he whipped his blankets up the bed to smooth them into place.

An unexpected object in his peripheral vision at the head of his bed made him stop. Had he seen something move?

Couldn't have.

He reached out to smooth his pillow.

He stopped again; this time frozen in shock.

There, lying on the snowy whiteness of his pillowcase, except those which had wafted clear when he'd pulled up his sheets, were hairs.

Dark hairs.

Short hairs.

His hair?

Too much hair for a normal night's sleep. This amount of hair loss meant something more drastic.

And more permanent?

Scott felt sick. Hadn't it only been the other day that they'd been discussing hair loss in the family?

It had been breakfast time and he'd already been seated, enjoying his meal, when John had come in carrying a tablet computer. "Morning all."

"Morning, John."

Grinning, John had presented his family with the image on the tablet. "Guess who this is?"

Scott had glanced at the digital photograph as Virgil had taken the tablet for a closer look. A social media web site had been loaded, but the name of the owner of the page had been obscured.

"Uh, uh," John had warned as Virgil had gone to move the screen to read the individual's identity. "I've locked it so you can't scroll. You've got to at least try to guess first."

Virgil had frowned. "He looks familiar, but…" Shaking his head, and with Scott still digging into his cereal, he'd passed the tablet to Gordon.

Gordon had been just as perplexed as Virgil. "As you say, he looks familiar… Do we know him personally?"

John's grin had broadened as he'd helped himself to the milk. "Yep. Really well."

"But not recently?"

"Some of us have seen him more recently than others."

"You could say that about just about anyone." Gordon had handed the tablet to his father.

Scott didn't know what had tipped Jeff off but, as he'd looked over his spoon, he'd seen the older man smile and say: "Well, what do you know… _He's_ changed."

John smirked. "Hasn't he just."

Jeff had held the tablet out to Scott. "You knew him better than any of us. Who is he?"

"I did?" Scott had laid down his spoon as he'd accepted the computer. He'd stared at the individual on screen.

Height: Indeterminate as there were no visual cues to act as a reference.

Build: Neither overweight nor underweight.

Hair: None.

Eyes: Appeared to be hazel, but that was dependent on the quality of the photograph.

Facial hair: Clean shaven.

Features: Pleasing.

Clothing: Neat, but casual.

He'd been about to hand the tablet back to John with a demand to know who the individual was, before something about the man's bearing made him stop. "It isn't!?"

His evident surprise had John laughing. "It is."

Holding his hand over what would have been the hairline if there had been hair, Scott had turned the tablet around so the man was visible to both Virgil and Gordon. "Now can you see who it is?"

He watched, with as much amusement as his father and John, as both their jaws dropped. "No way!"

"Yep," John confirmed. "It's Craig Renshaw."

"Craig?" Gordon had spluttered. "What happened to his hair? Last time I saw him he was able to sit on it."

"It was never that long," Scott had corrected. He and Craig had been friends right through school until differing careers had sent them in different directions. Craig Renshaw had been a bit of a ruffian, if a good natured one, and a boy who was always willing to get up to a bit a mischief and without much concern about personal grooming. The last time Scott had seen him, at his friend's wedding, his wild and woolly hair had been tethered into a pigtail.

Now Craig Renshaw had no hair to speak of.

Virgil took the tablet back, so he could look at the photograph again. "Has he shaved it off, or has it fallen out?"

"It doesn't say," John had admitted as he'd unlocked the tablet. "Only that he was pleased to announce that he's the proud father of a baby boy."

"Nice." Scott had approved.

"The kid's as bald as he is." Gordon was peering over Virgil's shoulder as the latter had scrolled down the page seeking further information.

"He's a newborn, Gordon," Scott had scolded. "What else would you expect?"

"You had quite a head of hair when you were born, Scott," his father had told him.

"I did?"

Grandma had chosen that moment to bustle into the room. "Good morning, everyone."

"Morning, Grandma/Mother."

"Has everyone got everything they need?"

"Yes, Grandma/Mother."

"If you need anything else, just ask."

"Thank you, Grandma/Mother."

"Hey, Grandma!" Snatching the tablet out of Virgil's hands, Gordon had held it out to his grandmother. "Guess who that is?"

She'd barely glanced at the photograph. "Craig Renshaw."

It had been John's turn for his jaw to drop in surprise. "How'd you know that?"

"I saw him the other week when I went back to the ol' hometown. And Maryanne and Saxon."

"Who?"

She'd tutted. "Craig's wife and son."

"Saxon?"

She'd ignored the scandalised question. "I nearly didn't recognise him until he spoke to me."

"Saxon?"

"Don't be silly, John. I meant Craig."

"No, I mean he called his son _Saxon_?"

"Yes. It's a family name. Some things are destined to be passed down the family line."

"Like baldness," Jeff informed his sons. "I've heard it said that you can tell if a boy's going to be bald when he grows up, by looking at his mother's father. Craig's grandfather had no hair. _Your_ mother's dad was as bald as a coot." He'd grinned at his four sons' expressions and run his fingers through his own thick hair. "My maternal grandfather always had a good head of hair."

"He did," Grandma recollected. "I used to be fascinated by Pop's hair. It was like a lion's mane." She gave a wistful smile at the memories. "I don't remember it ever being grey."

"That's because you didn't pile the stress onto him that my kids do."

"That's your fault for starting International Rescue," John had reminded his father.

Jeff, about to have a drink, had indicated with his mug towards his practical-joking second youngest, who was hoeing into his cereal. "It's not only International Rescue that's caused it, John."

That conversation had been days ago, and Scott had thought no more of it. Until now. Until he found himself staring at those dark strands in his hand.

His maternal grandfather had been bald.

What would life be like with no hair? How would his family treat him? Members of other rescue organisations? Victims?

Women?

He'd always been attractive to women; the stereotypical "tall, dark, and handsome" serving him well when it came to wooing members of the opposite sex. Would he be as lucky just being tall and handsome? Would he still be handsome?

Or would he look like some movie villain?

How much hair had he lost? With a feeling of deep trepidation, Scott ran his fingers through it. It felt as full as it ever had, but he supposed that the changes were happening so gradually that he wouldn't notice.

He pulled his hand clear and looked down at the two dark strands caught in his fingers. This seemed normal, but was it? Had what was _normal_ changed over the years until this was the new normal? A normal where one day he'd run his hand over his head and it would come away with nothing caught?

Why did he have to lose his hair? Why couldn't it just gradually fade to a distinguished grey. Even a full head of white hair, as colourless as a polar bear's fur, would be better than no hair at all.

With a deep breath, Scott told his iron self-control to step up and bring his fears into line.

Should he try to hide his hair loss? Or brash it out with a buzz cut that would show the world that he was still in charge. Or adopt a "who cares what the world thinks" attitude and let nature take its course. Or should he…?

Just a minute…

Scott took a closer look at the fibres trapped by his fingers and those retrieved from his pillow. His hair was dark, of that there was no doubt, but not uniformly so. It would take on a different hue depending on the situation he was in. If he had just returned home from a multi-day rescue, tired, filthy, and in desperate need of a long shower, something tasty to eat, and his bed; then it would be black, lank, and dull. But if he was bright and fresh, with the light hitting it just so, then the paler threads that highlighted his locks would tone the colouring down to a deep brown. And sometimes, if he was outside and the sun was hitting it just right, his hair would take on a coppery sheen.

But these hairs, these traitorous hairs, were all uniformly black. Uniformly the same length, and uniformly black. These were fine and wispy. The two strands that had just been combed free were thick and strong and not uniform in colour.

Were these fine hairs even his?

They couldn't have come from the same source!

Could they?

He needed a powerful microscope to make sure.

Fortunately, he knew where he could lay his hands on one.

Leaving his room, Scott sprinted silently through the hallways to Brains' lab, relieved to discover that his friend was either still in bed or working some place else in the complex.

Placing one of the pillow hairs onto a glass slide, Scott carefully placed another slide on top to keep it in place. Then he hesitated. He was either about to hasten an unwanted process or prove that someone had taken him for a fool.

Deciding that, as it was only one hair it didn't make much difference and that he needed a fresh sample to confirm his hypothesis, he yanked it out of his head and placed it on another glass slide. Then he mounted both on the microscope and peered through the eyepiece.

The two strands were as different as chalk and cheese. The colour was different, the scale pattern was different, the follicle was different.

More relieved than he'd ever let anyone know, Scott sat back and thought. The strange hairs weren't his and probably weren't even human. But how did they get onto his pillow? And why?

Scott thought the answer to the why was obvious, even if he wasn't sure about the how. But how to prove it?

After leaving the lab exactly as he'd found it, he got changed, and then retired to the gym for a meditative workout. By the time he'd finished that, sweat plastering his hair to his head, and had returned to his bedroom for a luxurious shower and to get into his daywear, he knew what his plans were.

But first things first. Did he want his torturer to think that his trick had succeeded?

Deciding that he at least needed proof before he blamed the guilty party, and that he didn't care if that meant the culprit was allowed a few moments of gloating satisfaction, Scott grabbed a cap, pulled it onto his head, and headed down to the dining room for breakfast.

"Morning, everyone."

He was in luck; everyone was present. Knowing that the window of revelation was brief, Scott made a point of watching his suspect.

It would have been missed by anyone who didn't know him as Scott did, but he saw the minutest of smirks, before the miscreant's face was schooled into a more neutral expression. Everyone else looked unconcerned; aside from Brains who had his "I'm developing something new and exciting and nothing else is getting through to my synapses" expression, and Scott's father, who fixed him with a gimlet eye that told him that wearing a hat to a meal table was not on.

Scott didn't care. Now that he knew all that he needed to know, he whipped his cap off his head and sent it spinning across the room onto the shoulder of his chair. It hung there swaying gently: unneeded.

Scott grinned. As soon as he'd eaten, he'd set his plans in motion.

-F-A-B-

"What's up, Scott?"

Scott closed the door behind his brother. "Sit down. I'm going to get John on the line."

Realising that big brother was in "I'm in command" mode, and that there was no point in saying that he had his own projects elsewhere in the complex, Virgil obeyed.

John's smiling face appeared in the place of a photo on the wall. "Hiya, Fellas."

Virgil flapped his hand. "Hi."

"What's up?"

Virgil shrugged and looked at Scott, who seemed more interested in collecting something off a nearby table. "Is the world quiet today, John?"

"Yep." The space monitor nodded. "Not even a…"

"Hold your hand out, Virg," Scott ordered.

John chuckled at the manner of the instruction. "Have you been naughty?"

He was ignored.

Virgil stared up at his eldest brother. "Why?"

"Because I said so."

Determined to maintain at least some semblance of autonomy, Virgil refused to obey the command. Instead he folded his arms, hiding his hands.

"Hold your hand out," Scott repeated. "I want to show you something."

"The working end of a cane?" John guessed.

Scott spun on his heel to face the video image and fixed his younger brother with a look that told him to pull his head in. "If I didn't need your help, John, I'd disconnect you now." Turning his back on the Space Monitor, he returned his focus to the obstinate figure before him.

"You need my _help_?" John looked as bemused as Virgil, who, realising that to hesitate would only waste time, had finally decided to obey. "From _here_?" He watched as something that was invisible; to him and the video camera anyway; was placed on his younger brother's hand. "What is it, Virg?"

"I don't know." Virgil examined the fine threads and then stared up at Scott. "What is this?"

"What does it look like?" Scott challenged.

"Erm…. Hair…?" Virgil nudged the fibres with his finger. "Where did it come from?"

"I found it on my pillow this morning."

Virgil's head snapped up. "Your pillow? You found hair on your pillow?"

Scott gave a sombre nod.

"Hair?" John echoed. "Loose hair?"

"Yes."

"On your _pillow_?"

"Yes."

"How much?"

"Enough to be alarming."

"Scott!" John stared at him in surprised concern. "You're losing your hair?"

"That…" Scott growled, "is what I was supposed to think."

"Supposed to think?"

Assuming that his brother wasn't in major denial; Virgil decided that the hair wasn't Scott's. "It looks too fine to be human, so might be animal hair… Or fur… How did it get on your pillow?"

"I haven't worked that out yet."

"But you know why it was there?"

"I think we all can guess that one."

"Gordon!" they chorused.

"Yep. Remember that conversation we had about Craig Renshaw losing his hair the other day? That's probably what put the idea into his mind."

"And because you're eldest and have the darkest hair, he thought you were the best candidate."

"That's my assumption. I'm also assuming that, once he'd had his fun with me, you two would be next in line. That's why I want to make use of your skills. I want revenge, and when it goes down, I don't want him to have the slightest clue that I was behind it. Not until it's time to reveal everything."

Virgil's arms were folded again. "So you want us to get the blame instead?"

"Nope. With what I've got planned, he won't even think that there's anyone to blame…"

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

It had taken a few days for the preparations for Scott's plan to be completed, and then, when those plans were ready, the tricksters had to wait for the right moment…

Maintenance was an ongoing issue for International Rescue, and Scott had decided that it was time to check the sliding mechanism of the swimming pool that hid Thunderbird One's launchpad. Once the pool had been drained he'd enlisted Virgil's help, ostensibly to speed up the process. The real reason was that whilst the two of them inspected every square millimetre of the cavity, it meant that not only did Gordon know exactly where they were; i.e. nowhere near him; they were below ground and above suspicion.

Gordon, keen on getting the swimming pool back into working condition, had offered to check that the forcefield that stopped the pool furniture from being blown from Tracy Island to somewhere near Timbuctoo was still operational.

Scott had accepted the offer. And mentally rubbed his hands together in glee.

All was ready.

Despite the inspection being the ulterior motive for his plans, both he and Virgil were diligent and methodical in their approach. It was necessary work to ensure the safe launch of Thunderbird One, and they couldn't afford to do a less than optimum job simply because of their anticipation that something more interesting was about to happen.

A sound was heard overhead.

"Incoming," Virgil whispered.

"Can you hear me, John?" Scott was just as quiet; his voice loud enough to be picked up by the microphone in his watch, but not so loud that Gordon would hear him.

"_Strength three."_

"You are cleared to fire when ready."

"_Target is not in position yet."_

"Don't fire until you're sure you can make it count. You'll only get one chance at this."

"_Don't worry, I've been practising."_

Virgil's eyes narrowed. "How has he been practising…? On what…? And who?"

"_On a simulator… Maintain radio silence… Locked on target… Fire!"_

It was with a supreme effort that Scott and Virgil continued their work; even though they were desperate to see the events occurring behind and above them.

They waited a good thirty seconds before Scott asked the question. "Were you on target?"

"_Bullseye."_

"We didn't hear anything. Did he react?"

"_He felt it all right, and I think you can relax. He looked skywards, not towards you fellas."_

"Good. We'll check out the video after we've finished this chore. Thanks for your help, John."

"_Any time. Let me know when the next act in your drama begins."_

It began almost straight away. Scott and Virgil had returned to their inspection when a pair of feet appeared above them. They looked up, squinting against the sun at the silhouetted figure with the auburn halo.

"Some gull just bombed me," Gordon looked at his hand and screwed up his nose. "And I'm going to wash it out of my hair. I'm only telling you this, so that you don't think I'm running out on you."

"Okay." Scott replied, pleased at the way he was managing to sound relaxed and not keyed up over the way things were going to plan. "We'll keep working."

The familiar cheeky grin flashed down on them. "Do you want a couple of umbrellas? Those gulls have deadly aim."

"We'll take that risk," Virgil told him.

"Back soon."

His brothers watched Gordon retreat into one of the nearby changing rooms, before they high-fived each other.

-F-A-B-

It had, Scott reflected, been a real team effort. His idea in coming up with the plan, Virgil's technical wizardry in creating the launcher, and John's deadeye shooting. Gordon hadn't stood a chance.

Grinning, Scott replayed the video of John's feed throughout the entire operation, chuckling as he watched Gordon slap his hand against the back of his head and then look skywards. "Got you, Bro. Got you good."

But Scott knew that he still had to wait for the dénouement; the revelation; the coup de grace.

He could be patient.

He had been patient for twenty-four hours before the climax of his plan was revealed.

It was the one brother who hadn't been involved in the whole escapade who made the discovery. "Gordon!"

Gordon, kneeling on the floor as he delved into the inner workings of one of International Rescue's pod vehicles, hadn't heard the surprise in the exclamation. "What, Alan?" he asked, his mind elsewhere.

"Are you getting a bald spot?"

"Am I what?" Dropping his tools with a clatter, Gordon felt the back of his head.

"Not there," Alan told him. "Up a bit."

"Up a bit?" Unwilling to believe what Alan's eyes were telling him, Gordon let his hands to fall back into his lap. "You're joking."

But Alan knew there was nothing wrong with his eyesight. "I'm not."

Gordon's right hand shot to the back of his head again.

"You need to move to the left."

"Here?"

"I can't see it now 'cos you've got grease off your hands all over you. I think it was…" Alan prodded his brother's scalp. "There."

Gordon's hand moved again, his fingers threading through his thick hair. That bit didn't feel thinner… Did it?

He launched himself to his feet and found the nearest piece of gleaming metal, disappointed to discover that it wasn't reflective enough nor flexible enough to allow him to see where Alan had prodded.

Ignoring the rule about not running in the workshop, he dashed to the lift. As he made the agonising ride upwards, only one train of thought ran through his mind.

It couldn't be true.

Alan had to be playing a trick on him.

He couldn't be losing his hair. Not now. He was too young!

He ran into his room, not realising that an audience had witnessed his mad dash.

Scott smirked. Patience, he decided, _was_ a virtue.

There was nothing patient about Gordon Tracy when he sprinted into his bathroom, and picked up a hand mirror, holding it behind his head as he tried to see its reflection in its bigger cousin on the wall.

Alan was right. There was too much grease. Filling the hand basin with hot water, Gordon lathered his hair with soap and then, soaking himself and his walls in his haste, rinsed it and the oily substance away.

His wet hair lay plastered on his head, not revealing anything. Towelling it quickly, Gordon tried again with the mirror.

Now his hair was sticking up everywhere, hiding any incriminating flesh. Making another dash, this time outside, Gordon turned his back to the sun and allowed the warming star to dry his hair. Then he grabbed his phone, held it behind him, and took a photo.

Taking a deep breath, he looked at the image on screen.

That wasn't skin he could see, was it?

Beaming the image across to the larger screen of his computer, he examined the display.

Devastated, he sank onto his bed.

-F-A-B-

"Have you fellas seen Gordon lately?" Grinning, Alan joined his family for a relaxing break in the lounge before lunch.

Virgil allowed his head to flop against the sofa as he stretched his feet out and enjoyed a moment's respite. It had been a full-on morning with a fault in the Firefly proving to be more irritating than a buzzing insect. "Nope. He was working with you this morning, wasn't he?"

"Yep."

"Then why are you asking if we've seen him?"

"Because you can see more of him than you used to."

Jeff set a sky-blue mug with the inscription _Keep Calm and Call International Rescue_ to one side_._ It had been a gag gift from his sons last Father's Day. "What do you mean?"

"He's got a bald spot."

Virgil lifted his head off the cushion. The Firefly's fault had pushed all thoughts of yesterday's prank out of his mind. "Where?"

"About…" Alan turned so he could demonstrate on his own head. "There."

"He's worn it away," John offered from his vantage point on the wall. "He's spent too much time scratching his head, working out ways to play tricks on us. Either that or all the chlorine from the swimming pool has dissolved it."

Scott entered the room, the remnants of a smirk playing around his lips.

Keen to further spread his gossip about one of their brethren, Alan didn't notice. "Guess what, Scott?"

"Guess what…?" Scott echoed. "Now… Let me see…" He pretended to think. "Gordon's losing his hair."

Alan, keyed up about the chance to reveal a juicy secret, felt his face drop. "How'd you know?"

"I nearly got bowled over when he sprinted to his room to see the damage." As Scott flopped into a chair, he ran his fingers through his own thick mane: an altogether satisfactory sensation.

"I'll bet." Alan regained some of his delight at a brother's misfortune. "The way he ran from maintenance bay B, I doubt we'll see him again today."

Virgil frowned. "But he was going to help me with the Firefly this afternoon."

Grandma entered the room. "Up you get, boys. Lunch is ready…" She did a quick head count. "Where's Gordon?"

"In his room." Scott smoothed down his hair as he vacated the chair he'd only just claimed.

"I know you're all keen to get back to work, so I'll go and get him, and you boys can go and make a start."

Famished as they all were, no one was about to object to her suggestion…

F-A-B

Grandma knocked on the door. "Gordon… Lunch is ready, Gordon."

"_Not hungry."_

This was odd. "You've been working hard all morning," Grandma told the door. "And I know you've got a lot to do this afternoon."

"_Don't worry 'bout me."_

"You've got to keep your strength up. What if you're needed on a rescue?" Risking his wrath, Grandma slid his door open and was surprised to discover that the room was dark with the curtains drawn. "Gordon…? Are you all right, Honey?"

"Yeah."

As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she realised that he was lying on his bed. "Are you sure?" Moving closer, she laid a gentle hand on his forehead.

Gordon, equally gently, pushed her hand clear. "I'mall right," Wanting to be left alone to his misery, he rolled away. Then, realising that he might reveal to his grandma what he wasn't yet ready to face himself, so he rolled back. "It's nothin'," he told the ceiling. "I'm jus' not hungry."

Concerned, she sat on the edge of his bed. "Something's bothering you. Can I help?"

"No."

"Would you like some apple pie?"

This was normally a panacea, guaranteed to get the most bedridden grandson up and out of bed and raring to face the day, but this time Gordon shook his head. "No thanks. Won't do any good."

"What would help?"

"A time machine?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm all right, Grandma." Gordon finally looked at her. "But I'll skip lunch, if you don't mind."

Grandma did mind, but she could see that protesting wouldn't help. "Well, if you get hungry later on, let me know and I'll make you something."

He managed a smile, grateful that someone still cared about him despite his deformity. "Thanks. Tell Virgil to give me a call when he's ready and I'll meet him in the pod bay."

Slightly relieved that he at least felt well enough to work, Grandma left his bedroom.

After a detour to the lab to exchange a sympathetic glance with Tin-Tin, who'd been corralled by Brains into some experiment that was clearly more important that gaining sustenance; and knowing that Kyrano would be off doing his own inscrutable thing; Grandma joined the rest of the Tracys.

Jeff looked up. "Where's Gordon?"

"He says he's not hungry."

"Not hungry? Why?"

"He didn't say."

"What's he doing?"

"Nothing. If I didn't know him better, I'd think he was moping."

"I'll bet he was moping." Alan snickered.

John, now watching proceedings from a frame on the wall as he ate his solitary lunch, shot Scott a concerned look. Virgil, finally having managed to push the vexatious Firefly to the back of his mind, looked equally disturbed.

But Grandma was unaware of any of the morning's goings-on. "Why?" she queried. "What do you know, Alan?"

"He's losing his hair."

"What?"

"He's got a bald patch." Once again Alan pointed out the location on his own head. "Right there."

"Oh, dear." Grandma sat down. "That explains a lot."

Scott's conscience was tapping him on the shoulder, but he told it that it could wait twenty-four hours. It had been close to a week and he had yet to receive an apology from Gordon, let alone an acknowledgement that he had been on the receiving end of a practical joke. It wouldn't hurt his brother to starve until tomorrow. In the meantime, he had his own hunger to feed, and he reached out for his first helping.

"He asked me to tell you to give him a call when you've finished lunch, Virgil," Grandma was saying, "and he'll meet you in the pod bay."

Virgil looked at his watch as if he was considering using its communication facility now. Then, with a glance in Scott's direction, he let his hand drop into his lap.

The rest of the lunch break was quiet.

So was the afternoon, as Scott worked in Thunderbird One's hangar far away from the rest of the team. He didn't return to the house until it was time to get washed and ready for the evening meal.

He was walking through the accommodation area with his mind on his dinner; having forgotten all about Gordon, hair, and practical jokes; when his arm was unexpectedly and painfully grabbed. "Ow!"

He found himself dragged into a bedroom. "We've been discussing it…" Virgil told him.

Who "we" were and what "it" was weren't immediately apparent.

"…and we've agreed that you should tell him."

"What?" Scott saw a movement in a picture on the wall that answered the first question and gave a clue as to the second. "Him being Gordon?"

"Yes." John gave a determined head nod.

"Yeah," Virgil added. "He's suffered long enough."

"Suffered?"

"He hasn't tried to call me at all," John informed both brothers, although Scott figured that Virgil was already aware of this dramatic announcement. "You know Gordon, he likes to make contact at least once a day to make sure that Thunderbird Five hasn't fallen out of the sky; even if it's only to tell me a lame joke."

Scott shrugged. "Maybe he's been too busy."

"He hasn't," Virgil told him. "We've been working on the Firefly, and it's been like working with a zombie. In fact, working with a zombie would have been preferable. At least it could have held a tray-load of tools for me." He held his arms straight out in front of him in demonstration.

"Must be nice to be able to work in peace and quiet for a change, instead of having to listen to a stream of dumb jokes."

"It's not. It's not natural for Gordon to be this quiet."

"Yeah," John agreed. "When Virgil told me how he'd been acting out of character, _I_ called him up. I barely got two words out of him. In fact," he frowned as he recollected the conversation, "I think I got two and a bit. A _Hi, John_ and a kind of double grunt, which I took to mean _I'm_ _okay_ after I'd asked him how he was. That's not Gordon."

"Let him sleep on it overnight," Scott advised his siblings. "He'll be back to normal tomorrow."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Of course, I'm sure." Scott gave a less than sure shrug.

"This isn't a _one sleep and it'll be forgotten about_ scenario," John insisted. "He thinks he's losing his hair and he's really depressing him!"

"John's right," Virgil agreed. "The only time I've seen Gordon more depressed was after his accident; and that was when he was helpless and thought he was going to be trapped in hospital forever."

"Then he should have considered that before he tried to trick me!" Determined to hold his ground, Scott folded his arms and stared his brothers down. "You do realise that he hasn't apologised… or even admitted that it was a joke?"

The penny dropping; Virgil stared at his eldest brother. "That hair loss routine really gave you a fright, didn't it?"

"No…" Scott shoved his hands into his pockets. "No, it didn't."

"It was a joke, Scott! And not even one good enough to trick you for twelve minutes, let alone twelve hours."

"Yeah!" John snapped. "You'd worked it out by breakfast. Gordon thinks it's for real!"

Scott was in the unfamiliar situation of having two younger brothers ganging up on him. Something that he wasn't enjoying; especially when he was not totally convinced that they weren't right. "I'm just giving him some of his own medicine."

"Well, it's a pill that's not only bitter, it's sour, burnt and covered in rocket fuel. And it's time he was given something sweet to make it taste better!" Exasperated, John glared at his brother. "You've got to let him know that it was all a trick!"

"And that it was all your idea," Virgil added. "We only helped."

"You were quick enough to agree to help me," Scott reminded them both. "Why am I the one who's the bad guy here?"

"Because you're the one who's letting him suffer. I'm telling you now, Scott." Virgil squared up to his brother. "If you don't tell him it was a trick before the end of dinner, I will. And then if he wants to blow up your bed in revenge, even if you're in it, I'll gladly build the bomb for him!"

"And I'll design the specs," John added. "That's a promise, Scott."

"All right, all right. Keep your hair on…" Deciding that he had no other choice, Scott agreed. "I'll tell him… Sometime… Tonight…"

"You'll tell him at dinner."

"What? But everyone else will be there!"

"Virgil and I want to hear you say the words: I'm sorry!"

Things were subdued at the dinner table. Scott eyed the normally mouth-watering array of food and wondered if he had the stomach to eat any of it.

Gordon was the last to arrive and he did so wearing a cap. For once, Jeff Tracy didn't admonish him and demand that he remove the headgear.

The young man sat there, staring at his nearly empty plate and not responding to anyone's attempts to draw him out of himself. He ate little, only pushing his food about in a manner that told everyone that his thoughts were elsewhere.

Scott felt someone kick him under the table. It was time to swallow more than his dinner; not that he had much of an appetite. "Ah… Gordon… I… I, erm… I think we owe each other an apology."

There was a faint glimmer of interest when his brother stopped playing with his cold potatoes. "Apology?"

"Yeah…" Scott pushed his own equally cold potato around an equally barren plate. "You're not losing your hair, Gordon."

Gordon opened his mouth as if he was going to respond and couldn't decide what to say.

So his father did it for him. "Why do you say that, Scott?"

"Because John, Virgil… and I…" Apologising was hard. Nearly as hard as the kick that connected with Scott's already bruised shins. "No, not John and Virgil, forget them, I mean, they helped, but it was because I asked," he flinched when he received another kick, "ah, told them to help, not because it was their idea, it was all my idea, and I made them help me, if they'd known how it would affect you, Gordon, they wouldn't, none of us would…" He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry."

He could feel Jeff's eyes boring into him. "Sorry for what?"

"It was a plan to get even. We, ah…" Scott flinched again. "…I, erm, arranged to shoot a blob of 9734.X45 at Gordon's head."

"9734.X45 dissolves proteins like keratin."

"That was the plan."

"Why?"

"To get even for Gordon's joke on me the other day."

"Oh…!" Gordon looked relieved, enlightened, and then confused. "What joke?"

"The hair you left on my pillow to make me think I was losing _my_ hair."

"Ah…" But then the look of confusion returned. "I never left any hair on your pillow."

"I'm sure you didn't. I would have seen it when I went to bed if you did. I don't know how it got there." Scott managed an ingratiating grin. "But, however it was, it was a clever scheme of yours, Gordon."

"I never put hair on your pillow. I haven't been in your room for weeks."

Scott laughed a laugh that sounded hollow even to him. "Then, you must have attached it to me… or my pyjamas… some…"

Gordon was shaking his head.

"…how?"

"Nope. I've never thought of anything like that."

"But, but… You must have! The other day, I wanted to check… I _had_ to check… that you were the culprit… I wore my cap to breakfast. You did that quick smirk thing that you do whenever you've got one of us."

"I have a _quick smirk thing_?"

"Yes." There was a sea of nodding heads around the table.

"What _quick smirk thing_?"

"Kind of…" Scott grimaced.

"And I did it then?"

"Yes."

"I don't remember. I do remember thinking that Dad would blow his stack if you wore a hat at the table," Gordon recollected, forgetting that he was currently in the same state of dress. "I was wondering what his, and your, reactions were going to be. I never thought you were hiding a bald patch."

"I wasn't. It wasn't my hair. I don't even think it was human. Then…" Scott felt sick. "If it wasn't you, then how…?" He glanced at Virgil, who was white, and John, who was pretending to fiddle with Thunderbird Five's settings. "Oh, heck, Gordon. I'm sorry, really sorry, that I put you through all this." Thoroughly disgusted with himself, he pushed his plate away.

"Are you telling me that I'm not losing my hair?"

His eyes glued to the table, Scott nodded.

"I haven't got a bald patch?"

"No…" This time Scott shook his head. "Well, yes, you have, but it'll grow back," he mumbled.

"It was all a joke?"

Scott nodded again.

"How did you do it?"

"Remember yesterday when we were inspecting the pool? It wasn't a gull that bombed you. We…" Scott wished that Virgil had changed into his slippers rather than coming to the meal table wearing his steel-toed work boots. His shin must be one solid haematoma by now. "I mean, _I_ got Virgil to make a launcher for the 9734.X45. Once you were in position and it was obvious that Virgil and I had nothing to do with you getting bombed, _I_ told John to fire it. I knew the 9734.X45 would dissolve enough of your hair to make you think you were losing it. I also knew that it would grow back. I wouldn't have contemplated using it otherwise."

Gordon, slowly, got to his feet.

Scott braced himself. Whatever his punishment was going to be, he'd take it like a man. Nothing could happen to him that could be worse than the way he was feeling now.

Knocking his chair out of the way, Gordon ran at his eldest brother, wrapping him in a huge bear hug. "Thank you!"

Wiping the remains of a slobbery kiss off his cheek, Scott decided there _were_ some things that were worse.

In contrast, Gordon seemed almost euphoric. "Next time I've got an idea for a practical joke, can I come to you for technical advice?"

"No." Scott gave an emphatic head shake. "I've had enough of practical jokes. I'm never attempting another. They hurt too many people." He rubbed his shin.

Pulling his hat off his head, and with a "I'm not losing my hair!" Gordon tossed the cap into the air in delight. Then he dropped it onto his chair, sat on it, pulled a bowl of greens closer, and started dishing out a double serving. After helping himself to generous quantities of the rest of what was on offer, he picked up his fork and dug in.

"The question is…" So far Alan had been watching the drama without comment. "If you didn't leave those hairs on Scott's pillow, Gordon…"

There was a muffled: "I didn't" through a mouthful of carrots.

"Then who did?"

"I did."

"Brains!?"

Brains blinked at the nine-part chorus. "I-I was developing a c-camouflaging compound that absorbed the colours of its s-surroundings, c-concealing whatever it c-contained. After two hours of being in contact with temperatures of greater than thirty-six degrees Celsius, the compound starts to lose its c-camouflaging characteristics and breaks down. I can envisage several uses for such a product, but I wanted to see if it was effective in a more frivolous manner."

"By planting it on my pillow?!"

"I-I, er, didn't have any paler strands of mohair to extend my experiment to include your brothers. Unfortunately, I got caught up with t-trying to ascertain what the Firefly's issue was, and I forgot about the experiment. I'm still not convinced that the problem is in the kirkees valve in the retardant dispersal pumping unit, Virgil. I would like to…"

But, at this precise moment, Scott didn't care about the Firefly's inner workings. "I was your guinea pig? And you didn't tell me that it was just an experiment?! Brains!"

Brains looked surprised at Scott's indignation. "Is something wrong?"

"For a moment there, I genuinely thought I was losing my hair. And because of that, I made Gordon think _he_ was losing _his_ hair! … Sorry, Gordon."

There was a potato-muffled: "S'all right."

But Brains still couldn't understand what the problem was. "T-Twenty percent of males experience hair loss at age twenty. It increases exponentially until ninety percent of men aged ninety start losing their hair. Statistically," he looked around the table, "we are all going to experience hair loss at some point. It's a fact of life."

A fact of life that none of his male friends were keen to contemplate.

Tin-Tin was less than sympathetic to the Tracys' slack-jawed looks of horror at this glimpse into the future. "If hair loss is the worst you men have to deal with, you should consider yourselves lucky."

Grandma only just managed to bite back a "hear, hear" of agreement.

"Besides," Brains pulled himself up taller. "A high forehead is a sign of intelligence."

"Is that a proven fact?" Grandma asked.

Finally, Brains looked abashed. "No."

-F-A-B-

It was later that same evening.

Jeff Tracy didn't know what else had been said between his sons and Brains. He wondered if his boys were hatching a plot to get even with the engineer, or if Scott was going to remain true to his promise to renounce all practical jokes. Or if they were going to agree to call a truce.

Until the next practical joke.

_If only I could get Gordon to renounce them_, Jeff mused as he removed his shirt and donned his pyjama top. _But Gordon wouldn't be Gordon if he didn't have that puckish sense of humour. It helps keep us all relatively stress free, especially when we've got to deal with living the stressful world of International Rescue. And I'd rather that he used humour as a safety valve, instead of doing something more destructive… _

He pushed a button and a concealed hatch in the wall opened. A shelf, holding a featureless metal bust, extended out into the room.

_I'm surprised that Scott got so het up at a practical joke that he even considered revenge. That's not like him… And what were Virgil and John thinking, agreeing to go along with such a cruel joke? I expect them all to know better. _

But, as he continued to disrobe, Jeff grinned at his boys' reactions to the very notion of hair loss. _I don't know what they're worried about. As Tin-Tin said, it's not the end of the world… __Especially if you have enough money… _He placed a hand on his forehead. _…to pay for a hairpiece so realistic… _Holding the skin taut, he peeled his hair away from his scalp. _…that even your nearest and dearest don't know you're wearing one. _He ran his hand over his bald pate, feeling the magnetic implants that held his wigs in place.

Swapping them on the bust, Jeff replaced his daytime "immaculately-coiffured" wig with his night-time "sleep-tousled" one and retired to bed.

_The end._


End file.
